English declamation is better calculated than any other to touch the soul, especially when such fine talents give it all its power and originality. It is less artificial, less conventional than that of France. The impressions produced are more immediate--for thus would true despair express itself; the plots and versification of English dramas too are less remote from real life, and their effect more heart-rending. It requires far higher genius to become a great actor in France, so little liberty being left to individual manner, so much influence attached to general rules;[1] but in England you may risk anything, if inspired by nature. The long groans that appear ridiculous if described, make those shudder who hear them. Mrs. Siddons, the most nobly-mannered woman who ever adorned a theatre, lost none of her dignity by prostrating herself on the earth. There is no action but may become graceful, if prompted by an impulse which rises from the depths of the breast, and lords it over the mind which conceives it still more than over its witnesses. Various nations have their different styles of tragic acting, but the expression of grief is understood from one end of the world to the other; and, from the savage to the king, there is some similarity between all men while they are really suffering.
Between the fourth and fifth acts, Corinne observed that all eyes were turned towards a box, in which she beheld Lady Edgarmond and her daughter; she could not doubt that it was Lucy, much as the last seven years had embellish her form. The death of a rich relation had obliged Lady Edgarmond to visit London, and settle the succession of his fortune. Lucy was more dressed than usual;[2] and it was long since so beauteous a girl had been seen, even in England, where the women are so lovely. Corinne felt a melancholy surprise: she thought it impossible for Oswald to resist that countenance. On comparing herself with her sister, she was so conscious of her own inferiority, that she exaggerated (if such exaggeration be possible) the charm of that fair complexion, those golden curls, and innocent blue eyes--that image of life's spring! She felt almost degraded in setting her own mental acquirements in competition with gifts thus lavished by Heaven itself. Suddenly, in an opposite box, she perceived Lord Nevil, whose gaze was fixed on Lucy. What a moment for Corinne! She once more beheld that face, for which she had so long searched her memory every instant, as if the image could be effaced--she beheld it again--absorbed by the beauty of another. Oswald could not guess the presence of Corinne; but if his eye had even wandered towards her, she might, from such a chance, have drawn a happy omen.